The Writing Desk
by devilberry
Summary: "Since when did the Mad Tea Party become some sick romance novel?" Drabble.


_...I could write a novel on the reasons why I don't write fluff/happy things in general. Because THIS comes out._

_I was gonna make it angsty, because that's what I do, but it's a giftfic for my dear friend megawatts, because she's a sad panda with a broken laptop, and I wanted to make her smile and all that bullshit._

_(But I will be writing angsty depressing Break/Reim in the future. Trust me :3)_

_Reim is probably OOC. Oh well~And I'm sorry if you prefer him as Liam and have a pet peeve about him as Reim. I get like that with Leo/Reo.

* * *

_What most people don't know is that the phrase "as mad as a March Hare" came into practice about 300 years before anyone had even thought of saying "as mad as a hatter."

(Hares have been around a lot longer than hatters regardless, but here's to hoping that most people already know that.)

The pair claimed their notoriety at the same time. In absolute equality. Blabbering about manners and murder and muchness.

The Hare smiles, saying how I like what I get is _not_ I get what I like, talks about the best butter, and wakes the Dormouse from his third nap this hour.

But in the end, everyone will still be wondering, why is a raven like a writing desk?

Alice even said herself,_"The March Hare will be much the most interesting, and perhaps as this is May it won't be raving mad - at least not so mad as it was in March."_

But its not May, nor March, and the Hare is left at his desk doing paperwork for the big bad madman himself.

Somehow, he's morphed into a sidekick. A servant. The forever-faithful-friend, willing to do the Hatter's bidding with just the smallest motivation. The white-haired man will ask for some tea to go with his cup-full-of-sugar, and the Hare will remove the Dormouse from its resting place, and pass the pot over to his friend. If you could even call him that.

_Annoyance is more like it,_ the March Hare growls, painting his signature-_Reim Lunettes-_onto the thousandth paper today. Dancing the pen over the parchment, looping and elongating each letter like a work of art. So different from the _Xerxes Break_ etched into the rare file the Hatter actually bothered to look at and sign.

So, he's off today, Mr. Hatter. Playing the hero of this story. Discover the secrets, take down the villains, that what Xerxes is here for. Reim is here to do the filing.

Since when did the Mad Tea Party become a hierarchy? Can't we all just be equal in our madness?

_Though..._ he pauses to take a drink of his tea (black, because Break ingests enough sugar for the two of them and then a dozen men more), _I suppose no one can equal Xerxes in madness._

And as he's cursing the Hatter's existence, who else would open the door but the red-eyed contractor himself?

Forever smiling, the man creeps up towards Reim's desk. Greats him, mocks him, teases him. Plants his bottom on the wooden surface, and messes with the brunette's obsessively organized papers.

"Don't mess with those, Xerxes," He grinds out, eyes flashing from behind the lenses of his glasses. "Those are _your_ files that _I'm _organizing." He bites out, hoping that this _idiot_ will get the message.

Grabbing Reim by the collar of his jacket and smashing the younger man against the surface of the meticulously organized desk, Xerxes obviously did _not_ get the message.

Stretching his legs out to wrap around his companion's waist, Reim starts caring less and less as their lips move closer and closer. Their mouths brush, never gracefully, and they're kissing. (Since when did the Mad Tea Party become some sick romance novel?) The pale man bites his lips, begging for entrance, which is given (no matter how reluctantly).

Break's tongue is a sharp and slick as his personality, running over every crevice in Reim's mouth, savoring the younger man's flavor. Red flushes to our March Hare's face as he lets out a moan-against his better judgement-and Break chuckles. The kiss dies quickly as the Hatter pulls away, looking his partner (in crime or in paperwork?) in the eyes. Dexterous fingers reach out, and yank the glasses off their owners face.

"We won't be needing these, now will we~?" As Reim's back slams against the desk, and his lips are again devoured.

And really, why _is_ a raven like a writing desk?


End file.
